


from fear of tomorrow

by prophesyr



Category: Far Cry 5
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-18
Updated: 2019-03-18
Packaged: 2019-11-23 17:31:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18154889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prophesyr/pseuds/prophesyr
Summary: '   in every loss is a chance for revival, but do not forget the past. do not let it die, for the past is what teaches us to grow. the past is what makes us human.   '—sermon, the project at eden's gate.





	from fear of tomorrow

**Author's Note:**

> Posted originally on prophesyr @ tumblr for the Hope County Gothic 2018 event.

        ‘   I gotta say, you picked the _**perfect**_ day for this,   ‘     Timothy sighed into the Springtime air. He was the last in line on the banks of the river. This spot, he had chosen with the intention of speaking with the Father as he passed, however   **f l e e t i n g** that conversation may be.  
  
          Joseph was still spry, wearing the **HOPE** that every soul could be saved in his smile.     ‘   Every day is the perfect day,   ‘     he rejoined, a hand clapped to back of his faithful—an action which made Timothy **tremor** in approbation. Having only walked among the Father’s children for two months, that devout adoration had not yet subsided to quiet obedience. For some, it never would.     ‘   Come lightning or sun, find _**ceremony**_ in every moment, right?   ‘  
  
          They handed him the title of the Father less than a year into his teachings within the Atlanta slaughterhouse. New members would find him only by the  **moniker** , and never once would he allow it to stick. His insistence stopped nothing; they spread news of someone nearly inhuman, someone truly **RIGHTEOUS**  standing before the Project’s congregation. And every day, that congregation grew with the stories about the Father. Still, he pushed the notion that he could be anyone other than _**Joseph Seed**_ far from his mind.  
  
          He was only human. Should anything be worthy of this esteem, it was the Voice and the Voice **alone**.  
  
          The forest held its own cast of   **m y s t i c i s m**. Here, one would swear that the trees themselves had eyes and ears. All that could carry the echoing babble of the Henbane was worthy of the pages of a children’s bedtime story. Eyes closed and _**mind open**_ , anyone could find themselves lost within her spell.  
  
          Two by two, and some in groups of three, the faithful marched peacefully through the underbrush. Among them **SWELLED** a song of hope and sanctuary, one which John spoke vehemently about from between two of the Father’s children. Within each of them lay the only faith he could ever wish to see. And leading the way, with hair as   **u n t a m e d** as her eyes, danced the single soul who saw Joseph’s word for its true worth. Her name was a **whisper** on the wind ;  she left it behind with the rest of her life as the pastor’s daughter.  
  
          Jerome may resent Joseph for the rest of his days, but how could he **_deny_** her the serenity she found among the Project?  
  
          With a voice like that of the angels, she turned to beckon the Father to her side, and he left Timothy there to seep in his stupor. Lost so far in her own _**worship**_ , her feet still stepped with the surety of a soldier. Elated though she may have been, her laughter came with a gentle **obedience**. And the outreach her hands toward Joseph, the soft wrinkle at the corners of her eyes as he took them in his own, regarded him with nothing short of love.  
  
          ‘   Listen to the **BIRDS** ,   ‘     she lilted toward the branches overhead.     ‘   They’re so talkative today.   ‘  
  
          Some croaked and some crooned ;  all followed the faithful in **speculation**. In terms even her father could understand, Joseph molded his teachings,     ‘   God shows His majesty in _**spectacular**_ ways.   ‘  
  
          The slightest incline of her head showed that she understood.     ‘   I hope He **smiles** on what He witnesses here today.   ‘  
  
          At some point the night before, John disappeared behind the mask of the **Baptist**. By the time the sun rose, he had long lost himself underneath it. Today, he stood easily within the flow of the river. It circled just below his knees tugging at him just as the faithful grasp for the Father. Its tide cared not for _**loyalty**_ , nor would it change course for any man. John’s mind may have relished the freedom of the skies, but in more ways than could be put into words, the water reflected so   **c l e a r l y** everything he has ever been.  
  
          This was far from his first sermon. Hundreds prior took place under his capable direction—from Georgia streets to Kentucky mountains to Maine harbors to Nevada badlands. He was no **stranger** to crowds. That alone showed in the way he confronted them today, and Joseph beheld his little brother alongside the enthralled faithful like a proud parent.  
  
          He spoke at length of past fumbles, the     ‘   _**SLOTH**_   ‘     across his chest displayed for all to see, for he and his brothers were not morally flawless. The Father knew impurity just as well as the lost souls among them today.  
  
          One hand motioned for Joseph to join him.     ‘   Today, brothers and sisters, will mark an important milestone in our history books. The water will cleanse you of your sins, and like the Father himself, you will be allowed atonement.   ‘  
  
          ‘   Does it really count if you’re already **tainted**?   ’     Timothy remarked from the center of the crowd. Progressively, he had found ways to inch closer to Joseph. His need to rub elbows with **divinity** had already begun to poison the procession at his sides. With every move he made, they pushed back. Now, with Joseph standing at John’s side, only his most devoted could wait patiently among them—the same **_DEVOUT FAITH_**  who found herself on the end of Timothy’s resentment.  
  
          A biting glare silenced him.     ‘   Did you hike here so you could reject his offer of **salvation**?   ’  
  
          Timothy sputtered then, trying to grapple with a response that would keep him in the Project. Damnation did not suit him.     ‘   — _No, Brother John._   ‘     Submissively, his head dropped and not another word of questioning came from the group.  
  
          Despite the outcry, he was the first to be invited into the water. Joseph prayed to the Heavens for Timothy’s sake, that he may find _**satisfaction**_ in himself rather than in an ordinary man of God. And with that, Timothy was reborn into a life no less oblivious to his faults than before. **Euphoria** welled up in his eyes, and he thanked the Father repeatedly. He’d do it all right this time, he swore.  
  
          There were others like him, each as lost in their own minds as he. Half went to John ;  the others pleaded with the Father to pray more, pray **HARDER**. The more time he spent ensuring their eternal safety, the better.  
  
          His most faithful was the last to join him. The nod she gave was polite as always, and she told him,     ‘   I’m **ready** , Joseph.   ‘  
  
          All had to watch as he repeated the ceremony with her. His eyes closed, chin lifted to offer his God one **FINAL**  appeal. She fell back into the water effortlessly, all but lost beneath its current. So easily, she could have been   ** _l o s t_** in its pull, but his hands stayed steady. Almost desperately, they clung to her. If anyone among them would rise from the river a clean soul, if anyone could hold same faith that lived within him, **it was her**. And how she shone as a beacon of **_virtue_** when she emerged.  
  
          ’   You’ve done so _**well**_.   ‘     He embraced her with both hands, cupping her cheeks in each palm. It seemed like years since he last felt this way—his heart soaring for someone who was just as human as himself.     ‘   I hope the **Good Pastor** can see that.   ‘  
  
          She   **l a u g h e d** , and had it not been for the stream, the tears would have been evident.     ‘   Maybe someday.   ‘  
  
          The sun had drifted far beyond the trees. Midday came and went before the end of the service, and the height of the afternoon began to **sink** past the valley. The brothers walked side by side, enjoying each other’s company for the first time in weeks, sharing stories and anecdotes. Every so often, John would find something new to **COMPLAIN** about in the wilderness. Birds shit, sweat is _**gross**_ , and thirteen times, he tripped over rocks or roots or vines. This time, it ripped the sole from his left shoe.  
  
          An offer came readily from the elder,     ’   You can wear **mine**.   ‘     But John refused.  
  
          If he was taking from **ANYONE** , it would be from one of the sinners at their backs.  
  
          Joseph would _**allow**_ it, but only so he could stay behind and watch as his brother asked one follower after the other what size they wore. The congregation trudged on, and with every face, he felt a pang of **panic** grow harder to ignore.  
  
          How long had it been since he heard her **_singing_**?  
  
          They swept the woods. John, with a single shoe and half the congregation, was sent back home in case she found her way, while Joseph helped to comb the path. They looked through every hole, every bear’s den, every tree. Some _**gave up**_ within the first two hours. Others only stayed to be near the Father. Those, he sent away. With the fall of dusk, he almost gave up. Surely she was **okay**. She was home, and she was okay. The thought repeated itself until it was no longer made of words but a tight knot in his chest, and Joseph sank to the ground. She was safe. **SHE HAD TO BE.**  
  
          Only **GUNFIRE** could shake him. And it did, bouncing frantically between the trees. Did he remember standing? Did he recall his ambling sprint through the forest? Did he know it was the Henbane at the end of his search? All of it would forever be a **faded blur** behind the sight of her.  
  
          She held no warmth, just the river’s water   ** _s w e l l i n g_** inside her lungs and a set of broken ribs. At her side lay something that was once human, a hunting rifle barely clinging to a broken hand. It wore Timothy’s boots, his jeans, his shirt. But what should have been his face lay in **mangled disarray**. For every question the scene created, a new list of things he could never explain to Jerome flooded Joseph’s mind.  
  
          Though he may leave her killer to **ROT** among the animals he chose to behave as, though the Father himself may carry her back out of the wild, he knew what would follow. Come what may, Joseph would take the blame. **_Their someday never would come._** That much, he earned.


End file.
